


Everything's Okay

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bleeding Effect, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bleeding Effect in reverse-- snatches of Altair's decedents bleeding into him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the AC Kink meme. The request was "reverse-Bleeding Effect, so Desmond begins to affect his ancestors instead of the other way around". I kind of tweaked the prompt a bit, but the gist is still the same.

For all the things Altair understood about the world and of himself, there were still many things he could not account for in his life. He could control how loud his footsteps echoed in the halls of the Assassins’ Fortress, how steady his hand gripped a sword, and, on occasion, hold his tongue when he heard something that he particularly did not care for. His patience, while not perfect, never ran dry without reason, and a lot could be said of his temperament since the fall of Al-Mualim; he was getting better, letting his new responsibilities shape him as time passed on. 

But for all his care, every now and then there were lapses in his mind, as if he was holding a cup of water with the faintest crack on the edge that dribbled when tipped to the mouth. No matter how long he would sit on the rooftops of Masyaf, letting his mind turn over the occasional oddities, Altair could not puzzle out why, of all things, that today he had been convinced that his horse was not fast enough, would never  _be_  fast enough, even at a full gallop. 

He remembered gripping the reigns and, without any explanation, expected to hear the beast roar and surge forward, his vision tinted dark behind a film, followed by a sharp, rust-like smell he could not name, but made his head feel giddy and heart race. 

It was only when the horse gave a whinny of distress that Altair slowed its pace, wondering how on earth he had thought that he could reach Masyef from Jerusalem in a mere matter of hours. 

“Oo-kay,” he said and, for the life of him, could not figure out what ‘okay’ meant and why he had said it.

+

It had not been the first incident and it would not be the last. He would not make excuses for himself, saying that he was impatient or excited to get to Masyef. It was not exactly a lie, but it was not enough to warrant the firm, if sudden, belief he would get there in less than half the time—impossible.

They were truly not that bothersome, playing no large part in hindering his days, but the lapses often gave him pause, a thoughtful frown crossing his face for the quickest of moments. Every time, he would eventually write it off as mere affliction with the Apple. He would have to handle the relic more carefully, though he hadn’t the faintest idea how.

Malik did not perceive anything to be wrong. Or, at least, Altair hoped so. He had slipped, once, during supper when Malik asked for a drink Altair could not recall ever making.

“The—what was it—mixture of distilled juices you concocted last week,” Malik said. “It was good; I had thought you were only mixing any old bottle into a bowl and drinking it.”

Altair stared, dredging up said event when the novices had uncovered Al-Mualim’s private collection of wines and spirits. He remembered taking several bottles for himself and little else of that night. If anything, he must have consumed a shameful amount, considering his lack of recollection.

“It must have been some fluke,” Altair said, going back to his meal.

Malik did not look convinced, but he shrugged. “You spoke of the many virtues of spirits that night. It is a wonder that your reputation as a secret connoisseur of fine beverages did not spread like wild fire among the novices.”

“Malik, you will cease that grinning,” Altair said pointedly, “or I will toss you out this window.”

Malik obliged, though the evidence of amusement was still in his eyes. 

“You truly do not remember then? The spirits you used?” he asked, and appeared genuinely disappointed. 

The drink must have been exceptional, Altair thought, and said, “As much as I would like to pave a drunkard’s path for you, I do not. I was most likely drunk myself.”

Much to his surprise, Malik frowned. “Altair, I did not see you take a single drop that night. You were wholly sober, which I consider a blessing since no one else was.”

Like many times before, Altair could control his expression, not have his shoulders tense or hold his breath or let his anxieties show. He could do it, and he did. He smirked instead, leaning forward to give Malik’s side a playful nudge.

“Just because you did not see me, does not mean I did not,” he chuckled, and ignored the way his stomach twisted. 

+

  
Altair would have killed them anyway. He would have killed all the guards and all the Templars the day they tried to publically execute three of his brothers. Three brothers, all newly made assassins, no longer the clumsy novices that Altair found on the outskirts of Acre.

There had been a plan; there was always a plan if Malik could help it. 

Altair was in the gathering crowd, ready to strike when the signal was given. He looked ahead, meeting the eyes of the three brothers with nooses around their necks, ready to be tightened. It was at that moment that Altair felt a stab of fear and despair, mingled with the sense of disbelief, as f he couldn’t believe that were to be put to death—and  _of course_  they would be, the executioner wore the cross of a Templar.

There were flashes in the back of his mind, images of a boy, his brother, and his father. They were  _his_  family, and the thought of losing them, what would mother and Claudia do—who  _was_  Claudia—?

It was lucky that Malik had given the signal right then. Altair sprang up, blade poised high in the air and he was flying on eagle’s wings. 

  
When it was all over, Altair stood next to his freed brothers, bloodied from head to toe. There was not a single Templar alive and he was troubled to find that he did not care.

Malik, of course, would have something to say about it.

“You could have at least left one with enough breath to speak,” he said, looking around.

Altair, his heart still trembling from that feeling of absolute grief and fear, shook his head.

“No,” he murmured, giving each of the three brothers a quick, thankful embrace, “not today.”

+

It was rare, but even Altair was not immune to childish behavior. Gullible novices had to learn their lesson after all, and there was not a single time Altair could  _not_  grin when Malik found that he had sewn up both sleeves of his robe. 

 _“Hey, wassa-matta-you_ , Malik?” 

“I—what kind of language is that?” Malik called out from where he was seated on the floor, a tiny blade in his hand to snap the threads. He did not wait for an answer, probably because it hadn’t been the first time Altair had slipped out a babble of meaningless phrases. It did not, however, excuse him from making an armless robe. “You are as bad as the novices.”

“ _You’re_  the novice!” Altair shot back, a worthy retort had it been made about thirty years ago. Malik conveyed as much with a single glance; there was a reason why Altair never bothered with verbal comebacks.

“Oh yes, clearly,” Malik said, and ignored him for the rest of the afternoon.

  
+

  
Altair figured he could live with the lapses. They were not of  _him_ , but rather like vague memories from other people. Even the painted symbols he would occasionally see—and were invisible to all others—did not bother him. They were signs not meant for Altair to decipher, that much he understood. 

And he could not control them—that was another thing he understood as well—and maybe he did not want to. Every feeling that was not his, every foreign word he slipped, every flash of memory that did not belong to him spoke of a different life, a distant future or past, he was not sure which.

Altair did not speak of it to anyone, not to Malik or even to Maria, but it pushed him onward on days when the Apple’s mysteries refused to be revealed or when the Templars took another one of his brothers’ lives. He had never liked writing, but he wrote anyway with the absolute confidence that the Codex would be needed, someday. He filled it with knowledge of his time and filled it with knowledge of himself. It was to give back, in a way, for allowing him to feel an aspect of a family he never had, for giving him Malik’s quiet delight when he finally translated an Italian phrase, and for giving others the pleasure of tasting a cocktail that he would never make again. 

Altair still did not know what to make of the roaring horse though, but he supposed it was ‘okay’ after all.

  
 _fin._


End file.
